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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393248">No Wintery Weather Chill Him</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Wings14/pseuds/Angel_Wings14'>Angel_Wings14</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But it just came off as melodramatic, I tried to write like Charles Dickens, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Not Christmas, Pre-Slash, Sort Of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393248</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Wings14/pseuds/Angel_Wings14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The veil is thinning.<br/>Instead of being kidnapped by numpties, Baz receives a Visit. Intent on changing his ways, will the visions the three subsequent spirits be enough to open up Baz’s heart?<br/>Based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, but not set at Christmas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Stroke of Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: I was watching The Muppets Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve and this little idea popped in my head and refused to leave so, instead of editing the fic I’ve spent months making, I’m writing this… It’s based on A Christmas Carol, but it’s not actually a Christmas fic. It’s set just before the events of the book, had Baz not been kidnapped by numpties. Enjoy 😊<br/>Also the title is taken from the actual book, and I have tried to write in a similar style to the source material… I will hopefully post a chapter a day, but I guess we’ll see.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch was dead. Or at least that’s what his family seemed to believe.</p><p>Sure, he was as cold as the grave, but he still thought, he still felt. He may need the blood of others to maintain this image of life, a monster with a human face, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was actually dead. Being dead would surely be easier.</p><p>Baz, as he was known to his few friends, sulked in the cavernous gargoyle-filled room of his parents’ house, mulling over his lot in life. He was prone to fits of melodramatic melancholy, making it hard to get to know him. Even those closest to him, his family, Dev and Niall, though Dev was his cousin so technically counted as family too, knew very little of him and that’s how he liked it. If he kept everyone at arms-length from himself, he wouldn’t get hurt.</p><p>His father had shouted and yelled at Baz for his hunting habits, as if he could help that his feeding had disrupted the herd of deer his father had wanted to shoot for sport. If anything, Baz felt that he had a better claim to the hunting of deer, given that he needed their blood to stave off his impulses to take human life and not just as some sort of rich-mans trophy. But that line of argument had only incensed his father’s ire more.</p><p>Malcom Grimm was a haughty man with a stiff upper lip. He had been dismayed to learn of his sons… <em>condition </em>following the death of his first wife, and he hated any reminder of it. Unfortunately, the only outlet for this anger was Baz himself, making tensions in the house rise whenever they spent too much time together. The summer holidays had become a living hell for Baz. He couldn’t wait for them to end.</p><p>As he sulked in his room, he realised that he didn’t actually have to wait. Watford School was open for students a week before the school term started, allowing for different travel schedules and eager students wanting to settle first. Not wanting to prolong his torture any longer, Baz hurried to pack his bag.</p><p>He had planned to slip out the back, but it was impossible to avoid the latest arrival at the family home. It was perhaps a little ironic that the family member who had arrived after such an argument was none other than the notorious vampire hunter Fiona Pitch, sister to Baz’s late mother. Baz had never been able to pull the wool over her eyes long enough to do anything as rebellious as sneaking out (albeit to get to school early).</p><p>“Basilton!” she greeted, unaware of or ignoring the high tensions in the house. “Where are you creeping off to, boyo?”</p><p>“I’m going to school,” Baz grumbled. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to his aunt in particular, he just didn’t want to talk to anyone at all. For her part, Fiona didn’t look impressed with his answer, perhaps wishing for something more sordid.</p><p>Malcom appeared then, casting shadows in the already poorly lit kitchen. He frowned at Baz’s bag and guilty countenance, clearly assessing it for what it was: a teenager running away in a fit of pique. The shouting would likely have commenced again, but for the other occupant of the kitchen.</p><p>“Not a problem,” she said, glancing back at her late sister’s husband. “You don’t mind me dropping the boy off, do you? I’m sure whatever you called me here for can wait until I get back.”</p><p>Baz wondered if his father had invited Fiona over to discuss the matter of his affliction, perhaps to discuss the best way to make his undead son act like a dead person should, namely to stay in the ground and not be a general stain upon the family name. Baz could only speculate though, because Malcom nodded his consent and Baz what hustled out of the door by a strong hand.</p><p>Despite being fairly late in the day, the sunshine was biting and sharp. Though he did not catch fire in the sun, Baz found that his undead skin did not tolerate the heat the way it should. He burned easily and turned ashen from it instead of pink or red. How he wished, though, that this was not the case. He was perpetually cold, not just seeming so to others but feeling the chill deep in his bones, and so few things could safely warm him. The sun was clearly not an option, and he went up faster than dry tinder so he was loathe to stand too close to an open flame. The only thing he had ever felt warmed him through was the close contact of a living being, and even that he hadn’t experienced recently outside of feeding on deer.</p><p>Worse than the sun, when Fiona started up her car the air conditioning began to blow harshly in Baz’s face. He didn’t need any help in cooling down, and now he knew that it would be hours before he might begin to feel even vaguely warm again. Yet another reason for him to hate the summer.</p><p>For the most part, the journey was silent. Only in the last half an hour did Fiona attempt a conversation.</p><p>“So, what’s got your knickers in such a twist you’ve decided to swot up early?”</p><p>Her crude way of speaking put Baz more at ease. It was so completely different from his father’s eloquent vernacular, yet familiar enough in its own way. But whilst Fiona was more relaxed around her nephew, she too held opinions on Baz’s undead status, so he had to tread carefully in his answer.</p><p>“Father and I had another argument.” If he kept his answers short, he was less likely to start another row.</p><p>“Is this about you being gay again?” Fiona snorted in an unattractive manner. She didn’t care much for cultivating an attractive manner, as such frivolities only lead to distraction. In her line of work, distraction could be her downfall. But she knew that others cared for such trivialities as sexual attraction, and that it was a topic that often weighed on her nephew’s shoulders.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ah.” Fiona got it immediately. There were only two things Baz and his father argued about, and if it wasn’t the subject of Baz’s sexuality then it was the other. Fiona didn’t like thinking about it. These two topics weren’t the only things Baz wanted to argue with his father about, but they were the only things that saw the light of day. Other things, like Baz’s opinion on the magical war and the Old Families vendetta against the Chosen One, Simon Snow, were kept tightly under wraps.</p><p>“Ah? Is that all you have to say?” Baz bit out. So much for wanting to keep this journey conflict free. But really all Baz wanted was someone to prove him wrong, to show that someone was in his corner, fighting for the things he was tired of defending.</p><p>“Well what else is there to say?” Fiona asked, hands tightening their grip on the wheel.</p><p>“Anything!” Baz burst out. “Crowley Fiona, the man openly admitted to wishing I was properly dead because at least then he would get some peace-“</p><p>“Well maybe you should be!” Fiona shouted back. As soon as the words were out, her mouth audibly clicked shut. “I didn’t- sorry Baz I don’t mean that.”<br/>
“Yes you do,” Baz whispered.</p><p>They sat in silence as they rolled up to the school gates. Baz exited the car without a word, hauling his heavy case out of the boot with a single hand. At least one of the perks of vampirism was his inhuman strength, so he never had to struggle with packing light. It certainly worked well for him as he embodied the stereotype of the well dressed homosexual, thus his suitcase was always filled to the brim.</p><p>He stalked up to his room, right at the top of the tower, stomping his feet as he went. The room that he had to share with the Chosen One, bane of his existence and strain on his cold dead heart. He could only pray that Simon Snow wasn’t there yet, and, by some miracle, he found his room blessedly empty. The scent of his roommate lingered, of course. No amount of time away could fully erase the powerful scent of his magic from the woodwork or linen.</p><p>Once his suitcase was emptied and stowed, Baz found that being alone with his thoughts here was no better than being alone with them in his childhood home. He decided to take a walk to the other dorms on the lower floors of Mummers House. Perhaps some interaction with people his own age would soothe the itchy restlessness inside of him.</p><p>The door to Dev and Niall’s room was propped open by an unused Alchemy textbook, the cover of which was rumpled and faded thanks to its misappropriated purpose as a doorstop. Baz took a moment to mourn the fate of the book, caring more for a strange and boring book than he did most people, a fact that he did nothing to hide which lent itself to the untouchable aura Baz tried to armour himself in. </p><p>From the sound of conversation inside, Baz deduced that both of his friends had returned early too. <em>Excellent, someone to rant to</em>, he thought. He knocked lightly on the doorframe before stepping into the room. It was small, smaller than the room he shared with Snow at any rate, and cramped all the more for the suitcases and boxes that cluttered the floor. Dev was folding some clothes into a draw while Niall lounged on the bed on his side of the room, idly tossing a football from hand to hand.</p><p>“My father is truly the worst,” Baz complained to the room at large, cutting off the conversation already in progress. Dev and Niall both turned to look over to where Baz had filled the space available to him. Niall rolled his eyes at the uninvited intrusion. If he had known that Baz was a vampire, he might have thought to himself about needing to extend a vampire invitation to a dwelling. As it was, he knew nothing of his friend’s affliction and that that particular fact was entirely founded in myth, leaving Baz free to wander as the humans did.</p><p>“Hello to you too, Baz,” Dev said sarcastically. “Yes, my summer was great thanks for asking.”</p><p>“I don’t believe I asked,” Baz replied caustically, a single eyebrow raised. He was at the end of his tether with the events of the day and could not be dealing with small talk, or feigning interest in his cousin’s comings and goings which would no doubt be as dull as his doorstop had promised to be.</p><p>“No, you never do,” Dev muttered. Baz ignored him.</p><p>“My family is terrible and I hate every one of them for the way they treat me like dirt.” Baz was riled enough that he would pace if he had the room. Instead he settled for an unsatisfactory tugging of his hair, a habit he had picked up from his ignoramus of a roommate and hadn’t quite managed to shake.</p><p>“Present company excluded I hope,” Dev squawked, righteously offended at the very notion of being called terrible. Baz didn’t confirm nor deny this, choosing instead to cock his head to the side in thought. He wasn’t sure yet how Dev would react to the news of his queerness or vampirism, so it was hard to tell. The silence went on for a beat too long though, and both Dev and Niall took it to mean the very worst. Dev turned red, then puce in his anger.</p><p>“How dare you come into our room just to insult poor Dev! What did he ever do to you?!” Niall was quick to jump to his roommate’s defence. He threw the ball in his hands at Baz’s head, which Baz expertly dodged with a frown. “Get out of here, you tosser.”<br/>
Baz could tell when he was not wanted. He ducked out of the room with a sigh. Apparently talking to his peers was not what he needed after all. He couldn’t say he was overly surprised by that conclusion, for he revelled in his independence. He didn’t need anyone. But that didn’t help the festering, crawling sensation of wrongness under his skin. He needed to do something.</p><p>A brief trip to the catacombs and a few drained rats later proved to him that thirst wasn’t the reason for his discomfort. Perhaps what he needed was a more violent release. Once he was back in his room, he spied the uniform of his roommate laid neatly out on the made bed on the opposite side of the room to him. It was the only time this year that side would look so neat.</p><p>It was with irrational pettiness that Baz raised his wand to the room, slashing and tearing injudiciously at the fabric on Snow’s bed until all that remained was floating cotton, falling like snow (which Baz thought was delightfully poetic). Baz stared at the mess he had made, but it gave him no satisfaction.</p><p>“Bah!”</p><p>Turning his back to it, he readied himself for bed. He would think no more on this terrible day and tomorrow he will have forgotten this feeling of ill-content. However, as he finished pulling the covers up to his chin and the clock ticked over to midnight, a chill passed through the room, wafting up shreds of cloth in a small fluttering puff.</p><p>There in the centre of the room, illuminated by the soft moonlight straining through the warped glass of the window, stood a beautiful solemn figure. She was tall, hair as deep as midnight and eyes a fathomless grey. Baz immediately recognised this as his mother, Natasha Pitch.</p><p>The veil between worlds had been thinning, an event that occurred only once every twenty years. Baz had hoped that he may have the chance to receive a Visit from his mother in this way, but he was not prepared for the heart-wrenching sorrow on her face, nor her exquisite beauty. Pictures could not do her justice, not even now as she stood a mere echo of her former self.</p><p>“Basilton, my little puff, look how you’ve grown,” she whispered. Her voice was low and melodic, a burbling brook with deceptive depths.</p><p>“Mum?” Baz’s voice cracked on the single word, overcome as he was with emotion.</p><p>“Basilton, I don’t have much time so I will be quick,” his mother said, voice growing stronger with each word. “You have become something that I wish you were not.”</p><p>Baz felt his heart break, for while he knew that his mother would hate that he had become the very thing that had taken her life, the very thing that she had sought to destroy, to hear her say it was another thing. But why would she tell him this when there was nothing to be done? Did she really hate what he had become so much that she returned just to taunt him with what could not be? Baz growled out wordlessly.</p><p>“You are angry and full of hatred,” Natasha continued. “You have closed off your heart to love in fear of the hurt it may cause. But it is not too late, my darling, for you are at a crossroads in your life.”</p><p>She stepped forward, reaching out as if she longed to embrace her son. Despite her previous rejection, Baz longed for her touch too, with every fibre of his being. It had been so many years. But she stopped, knowing that her advancement was futile. They could not touch and she didn’t have long.</p><p>“You must change your ways. I fear for you if you do not. My darling, my puff, please keep your mind open and make your heart willing. You will be Visited by three spirits, who will guide you through this change. Heed them well, my love, for they are your last chance at happiness.”</p><p>“Three spirits? What-?” Baz was stunned at the onslaught of information. Change his ways? But there was nothing wrong with his ways! They had served him well and protected his interests for the last seventeen years, what good would it be to change now?</p><p>“The first spirit will arrive when the clock strikes one…”</p><p>Natasha began to fade, a single glistening tear sliding down her cheek as she reached out once more.</p><p>“Goodbye, my love…”</p><p>“Mother!” Baz cried out, but she was already gone. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. When the clock strikes one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Baz felt a sense on unease descend upon him at his mother’s departure. She had said that he would be visited by three spirits, but it was unusual for even one Visit let alone three more. The afterlife must have taken its toll on his mother’s faculties for her to believe such fallacy.</p><p>Nodding to himself, Baz resolved to settle in once more to sleep. But sleep evaded him.</p><p>He was still stinging from the comments his mother’s ghost had made about how his life, or rather unlife, had turned out thus far. Closed off his heart indeed. What authority did she have to pass such a judgement? She may have been his mother, but she had missed the last twelve years of his life. She didn’t know him any better than a stranger off the street. Full of hatred indeed. He loved his books and his magic. What need had he for reciprocity? It had never served him, and he was just fine without.</p><p>Then why did he keep turning these comments about in his head? Why did they keep him up, tossing and turning under his cold blankets? As the clock on the side neared one, he found the anticipation building in his mind and body, thoughts swirling, palms damp. He didn’t want to believe that another spirit would come to him, and he especially didn’t want it if it threw him into as much disarray as the last Visit had caused. He watched as the minutes ticked over.</p><p>12:58.</p><p>12:59.</p><p>The last minute stretched, interminable as Baz waited with bated breath. He internally chastised himself. He did not believe another spirit was coming. It was silly to even entertain the notion, it was statistically unlikely to the point of absurdity.</p><p>BONG!</p><p>The bell of the White Chapel chimed in the distance, carrying an air of finality. Baz had long since acclimatised to the sound of the bells, diminishing them in his mind until they passed into white noise. But tonight the sound rung in his ears, shaking him to his very core.</p><p>Baz breathed a sigh of relief. There was no chill wind, no apparition appearing before him. Just him in his musty school dorm, the scent of smoke and magic lingering in the air. In fact the scent of smoke was getting stronger, and the light from the window intensifying as if it were dawn already.</p><p>There, at the window, a flame appeared. A tiny flickering candle that wobbled and started in the still air. It floated up and closer to Baz where he cowered in his bed. Rightfully wary of fire, he recoiled. This didn’t look like any spirit he had known before, but perhaps this was the coming his mother had foretold.</p><p>“What are you?” he demanded, though his voice shook as he trembled. “What do you want?”</p><p>“I am the ghost of the past,” a sweet soprano voice emanated from the flame. “I am here to help you become the man you were always meant to be.”</p><p>The flame grew, Baz’s pupils constricting to pinpoints as his line of sight was engulfed in light. It resolved itself into the shape of a child, though it was a being of pure light like the imagining of an angel. There was no heat issuing from it as it reached out its hand, despite the acrid smell of smoke.</p><p>“Take my hand, and I will show you.”</p><p>Baz lingered for a long moment in indecision. He saw two paths ahead of him. Either he could give in and take the hand of this spirit, or he could deny it and be plagued with the thoughts of what could be. It wasn’t really a choice at all.</p><p>Tentatively, he reached out to touch the tiny fingertips. As he did, the world washed away in a wave of light. Was this how it felt to burn? To go up in flame and end his life?</p><p>But as quickly as those thoughts came, images began to swim in his vision, objects solidifying before him as he felt a curious weightlessness bring him down onto a solid wooden floor. He was in the nursery in the basement of the White Chapel. This room had been closed off after the vampire incident that had taken his mother and changed his life forever. But here it stood before him as if those years of neglect hadn’t gone by, much like he remembered it in the hazy memories of childhood.</p><p>There were a few children playing at a small table in the corner, their fingers sticky with glue as they chased each other with paintbrushes and tubs of glitter. It was loud and chaotic, grating to the ear if you heard Baz tell it. He had never much liked the riotous games of children, even when he was one. He curled his lip up at the sight.</p><p>“Do you recognise him?” the spirit asked, redirecting his attention to the other occupant of the room.</p><p>In the corner, nestled into a beanbag with a slim book in hand, was a small boy. His hair was neatly brushed back from his bronze skin, his forehead puckered in concentration as he tried to ignore the rumpus around him, grey eyes narrow. He seemed so serious for one so young, and held himself with an air and grace of someone much more advanced in years.</p><p>“Of course I do,” Baz whispered. And he recognise him, though it sent a lance through him to behold his former self with all the humanity he wished he still possessed. “He’s me.”<br/>Baz looked down forlornly at the pallor of his own hand, which contrasted sharply with the navy stripes of his pyjama shirt, and mourned the loss of his inherited skin tone. Of the visible parts of his lost humanity, it was this that he felt the most keenly, for it was as if his mother had taken it with her to the grave. He often tried not to think on it but here, faced with a version of himself he could never be again, his eyes had begun to sting.</p><p>“So lonely,” the spirit sighed.</p><p>Baz looked once more at the picture before him. He had been so caught up in his own feeling that he hadn’t stopped to consider what was odd about the child. Indeed, he was alone, preferring the book in his hand to the company of the other children. But did that mean he was lonely? Baz thought not. The other children were rude and disruptive, not worth the effort of engaging. But as he pondered that thought, he noticed the glances his former self gave to the other children. They were not the looks of one wishing the others would leave, rather the longing of one wishing to be accepted and included. Did this young Baz really wish to play too? Had it been so long he had forgotten that, once upon a time, he had wished to be part of the crowd?</p><p>“I suppose I was,” Baz reluctantly agreed.</p><p>“But it wasn’t all terrible,” the spirit said, once more directing his gaze, this time to the main nursery door. In walked Natasha, but not as she had appeared to Baz as an apparition but as she had been in life. She was regal, surveying the suddenly silent children with twinkling eyes set in a stoic face.</p><p>“Mother,” Baz breathed stepping up to her.</p><p>It would seem his younger self had also noticed the sudden lack of commotion and turned to the door.</p><p>“Mummy!” he called, gleefully springing up and skipping into her now open arms.</p><p>“My little puff,” she murmured into his hair, smiling one of her rare but beautiful smiles. The younger Baz snuggled into her embrace, clearly contented with her attentions.</p><p>“This was the day before your mother died,” the spirit said. “I will not make you relive that day, but perhaps the following weeks…”</p><p>The scene shifted. They were in the family manor, and the still young Baz was alone at the window. His tear-stained face was solemn and still, paler than it had been previously. The golden glow of his skin would fade over the years to the sickly ashen grey it was now. The colour of a corpse.</p><p>In the hallway behind them, footsteps sounded. They were heavy and slow, like that of a beast. Baz’s father emerged, younger than he looked now but somehow his eyes appeared older. They were sunken into his sallow face, staring sightlessly. It was like he was sleep walking.</p><p>“Father,” the younger Baz said, his lower lip trembling. Malcom turned to his son, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows, before he continued on, lumbering down the hall.</p><p>Both the younger and older Baz whimpered in concert. Malcolm may be grieving but to leave the boy alone like that was almost monstrous, as if Malcolm had actually turned into the unwieldly zombie he so closely resembled.</p><p>“I don’t want to see this anymore than I want to relive my mother’s death,” Baz whispered harshly, turning his face away from where the boy had once more resumed his lookout at the window.</p><p>The scene shifted again. It was summertime and a now slightly older Baz was playing in the shade of the big tree in the garden. There was a rope swing attached to one of the lower branches and he was spinning wildly, giggling with dizziness. Malcolm stood a short distance away, watching on fondly, arm around his new wife Daphne.</p><p>Baz remembered well when Daphne had first come into their lives. He was resistant at first but, after Daphne had made it abundantly clear that she had no wish to replace his mother, it was actually pleasant to have her around. His father, for one, was happier, and that meant he dedicated more time seeing to his son’s needs. Though Baz didn’t know it at the time, his father was also keeping a close eye on him to see how the bite on his neck would affect him.</p><p>“Basilton,” his father called to him. The younger Baz stopped the swing, trailing a bare foot in the grass, and dizzily staggered over to his father.</p><p>“Yes father?”</p><p>“Your step-mother and I have something to tell you,” his father announced, his grave eyes undermining the light tone to his voice. “We’re going to have… a baby.”</p><p>“A baby?!” Baz spat, appalled. “What do you want a baby for? You’ve got me?”</p><p>Malcolm frowned at that. He had wanted his son to be excited for this new addition, but this violent rejection was not something he was prepared for.</p><p>“Watch your tone young man,” Malcolm admonished. Baz looked up at his father betrayed, eyes stinging with tears. He turned and fled before any more words could be spoken.</p><p>“I remember this,” the older Baz sighed, watching his own retreating back. “That was only the start. After Mordelia came, they just didn’t make time for me.”</p><p>“It’s always a hard transition for older children to have siblings,” the spirit appeased, gently patting the hand it still held.</p><p>“He’ll come around,” Malcolm murmured. Daphne had turned into his chest in distress, not quite crying but close to it. Baz had never considered how this scene must have been for his stepmother. She had always been quiet, deferring to her husband whenever conflict arose, a silent supporter in the background. But looking back, she had always been the first to offer Baz a comforting touch, ready to mother him even though he always rejected it on principle. How would his childhood have changed if he had just given into her love? Baz’s brow furrowed in thought as he took in the sorrowful lines of his stepmother. She deserved better.</p><p>“Come,” the spirit said, tugging his hand. “There is more yet to see.”<br/>Baz hesitantly followed, eyes still locked onto the embracing couple. He could feel the air change and as he finally looked round he realised he was at Watford. In front of him was the crucible and, scattered around it, first years were taking jerky compelled steps towards each other.</p><p>Baz knew by now how this worked and was quick to locate himself among the crowd. Barrelling towards the younger him was a tiny Simon Snow. He was even smaller looking down on him now, thin as a rake and clearly malnourished. Even still the energy he held in him made him seem more than he was, a sizzling undercurrent of magic that shook his curls and lit his cheeks with unholy fire.</p><p>Snow held his hand out, his eyes hopeful.</p><p>The younger Baz sneered at the offering, despite the strong compulsion urging him to reach out and accept. How easy it would have been to accept the offer what it was: An offer of friendship. Instead, the younger Baz had filled his head with Old Family propaganda. No way was he making friends with the Mage’s Heir. Baz still stood by that decision to this day, though things had become complicated when, instead of becoming irritated by the boy’s foibles, he found them endearing. And worse still, the day that Baz finally came to terms with his sexuality only to realise that it wasn’t jealousy or annoyance that kept his eyes on him.</p><p>The younger Baz finally gave in and tapped Snow’s hand before hastily retreating. This time, the older Baz kept his eyes on Snow. He knew what he had done following that meeting. As soon as the other Baz was out of sight, Snow’s face crumpled. He looked even younger like that, turning his narrow shoulders in on themselves. His hand reached into his loose uniform trouser pocket to bring out a red ball.</p><p>Baz scoffed. He had all but forgotten about that God-forsaken ball, though for that first year it had grated on him like nothing else could. He never really looked at it, honestly, it had always just been flashing in his peripheries, always flashing. But he looked at it now. The seams where the ball had been formed were smoothed down with age or wear and, by the way Snow anxiously rubbed his thumb over the barely raised flaw, it seemed this this wear was due to a nervous habit.</p><p>Suddenly, the ball that had captured Baz’s attention was hastily stowed as Snow turned to face someone new. A very young Penelope Bunce, with her hair its natural colour unlike the rainbow parade it would become in the coming years, had boldly stepped up to Snow with her hand outstretched, much like he had done minutes earlier to Baz. Unlike Baz, Snow was quick to take the offering, smiling shyly. That was how easy it could have been, if only things were different… But they weren’t different, Snow and he were born and raised as enemies. To strive for anything other would be as futile as murderer begging for entrance at the gates of heaven.</p><p>The bright sunlight dissolved before Baz’s eyes, the image of Bunce and Snow clasping hands staining his retinas as he tried to focus on his new surroundings. But he was back in his bed, shivering in the pale moonlight. The child of light shrunk down until it was once more a flickering flame, bobbing restlessly in the calm night air.</p><p>“I hope this has been most informative,” the spirit said. “You have learnt to reject love before it rejects you, and it is easy to see why. But it doesn’t have to be this way. The next spirit will be along when the clock strikes two…”</p><p>And with that the light faded and sputtered out, leaving the room darker than before and Baz completely alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Baz to Spirits: I politely request that you bugger off.</p><p>I hope you enjoyed this one! See you tomorrow :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. When the clock strikes two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Time for Baz to meet the ghost of the present...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two o’clock was drawing near and Baz was once more becoming nervous. He was sure the next spirit was coming, as foretold, but he had no idea what to expect. Would it be another flame, like the last spirit? And would it show him visions of despair once more? He had spent the last several minutes as he counted down to the hour contemplating all the ghost of the past had shown him. It was horrific to relive those moments, moments he wouldn’t have even considered as being horrific if he were asked to recount his childhood, and made all the more so for the mundanity of the trauma they had inflicted.</p><p>It was an old joke that any personality flaw was the results of one’s parents. Baz had never blamed his parents for the lack of love in his life. It wasn’t his father’s fault that he was the only gay guy out in his peer group. It wasn’t his mother’s fault that he had been turned into a blood-sucking demon so that, even if he did have someone he could fall for, he could never pursue a healthy and safe relationship. But Baz could acknowledge that he did push everyone away, or rather he kept them at arms length, and that might have something to do with his frosty upbringing and the stiff upper lip attitude of his father.</p><p>BONG! BONG!</p><p>The bell of the White Chapel sounded across the still lawn. It was time for Baz to face his fears. He looked about him, waiting for a tell-tale chill or an ominous light to appear from the darkness, but there was nothing. Baz grumbled to himself. It was one thing to be terrorised by spirits in the night, but for one of them to be late was just plain rude. Baz was scowling into the darkness, when a knock came at the door.</p><p>A spirit who knocks? How strange, thought Baz, but he quickly shucked off his blankets and made his way to the door. He steeled himself, for he didn’t know what was to come, and hastened to open the door.</p><p>There was no one there.</p><p>Baz stepped out into the dark corridor. If he thought his room was dimly lit, it had nothing on the hallway outside, which didn’t even have a window from which light could filter. Not that this made much of a difference, as Baz quickly adjusted and his heightened vampiric sight allowed his eyes to penetrate as far into the darkness as he would be able to in the light. Even with all of this, he could not detect any sign of the entity who had banged on the door. No scent nor sound, hide nor hair could be distinguished from the surroundings. Baz frowned.</p><p>He turned back to his room, only to be taken aback at how it was transformed. It seemed the midday sun was now shining through the window and every available surface was dripping with fruits and flowers, filling the space with a luxuriant tropical smell.</p><p>“Oh ho ho ho!” laughed a man, who was inexplicably standing in amongst the cornucopia of colour. “What are you doing out there? Come in and know me better man!”</p><p>“Who are you?” Baz asked, stepping back into his room as his eyes widened at the sensory assault.</p><p>“Why I’m the ghost of the present! Didn’t someone tell you I’d be coming?” The spirit’s voice was deep and soothing, like a distant thunderstorm, the promise of warm rain to break a summer heatwave. “Come in! Come in and know me better man!”</p><p>Baz took another step towards this strange apparition. “Yes,” he ventured. “You already said that.”<br/>The man looked down, confused for a moment before once more breaking into a sunny smile. His head was covered in rusty hair that spilled in ringlets around his jovial face. He was as tall as Baz, though more filled out and certainly more tanned, as if he had spent his days labouring in a summer field. His dress seemed to reflect that too, with worn denim jeans and rolled up flannel, though instead of looking like the hipster trends of the modern era, the stress patterns and holes looked to be genuine.</p><p>“Did I also mention that I am the ghost of the present?”</p><p>“Yes, you did,” Baz said, finding himself smiling despite his trepidation. From his dealings with the previous ghosts, this was entirely unexpected. As he relaxed into the presence of such a being, he realised that for the first time in many years he actually felt warm. Contentment spread upwards from his toes, tendrils of warmth reaching up through his muscles to leave a pleasant tingling as they went. “And what have you come here to show me?”<br/>“Why the present of course!” the spirit exclaimed, before chuckling to himself.</p><p>Baz looked on confused. The present was surely just how he existed already, he was sure this spirit would not be able to sway him with anything it had to show. Was this journey to be more introspective? To show him the inner workings of his own mind? He already had a therapist who was paid handsomely for that job, not that it had done him much good if the spirits’ continued presence here was any indication.</p><p>“Come on, come on,” the spirit beckoned, shuffling past Baz and out the door once more. Baz followed, curious.</p><p>They went down the steps, following a similar path Baz had trod that previous afternoon, until they were once more in front of the door to Dev and Niall’s room. Baz tried to reach for the handle, but his fingers went straight through, raising a shudder of gooseflesh crawling along his arm.</p><p>“You can’t touch anything here,” the spirit whispered. “Just head on through.”</p><p>The spirit then walked through the door as if it were as insubstantial as mist, or rather as if he were. Baz was reluctant to follow, for surely that would be uncomfortable if simply touching the door handle made him shiver. Not to mention the fact that this seemed like intruding, stepping into a private room without the welcome of an open door. But he didn’t want to be left behind either, so after a moment he girded himself with a deep breath and stepped through the wooden door.</p><p>As he passed through, he could see the texture of the grain, the strange folding of the cells of the long dead tree still holding together after so many years without life. He wondered if this was representative of his own internal organs, stacked and twisted together before his transformation only to hold their shape like an interlocking puzzle when there was no longer the spark of life acting as glue.</p><p>On the other side, he saw that not much had changed in this room. There were perhaps fewer boxes littering the floor, but there were still too many for the room to be counted as tidy. Niall was once again lying reposed on his bed, though the football that had taken his attention yesterday was safely stored under the desk. Dev was searching through a smaller box, this one of tin instead of cardboard. The contents clinked and clattered inside but he didn’t draw anything out.</p><p>“I’m tired of being worried about him,” Niall sighed. Baz wondered who they were talking about. Perhaps Niall was sick of his schemes against Simon Snow. He had always voiced his concerns about the boy when it seemed they were taking their plots too far. Secretly Baz was pleased at the restraint his friend enforced upon the group, because it meant he could take a step back without tarnishing his ruthless reputation. But being the moral compass must be tiring.</p><p>“I know,” Dev agreed, not looking up from his task. “I know he’s family but I’m seriously considering just not bothering his year. It’s always the same, and it’s always about him. I’m sick of it.”</p><p>“Are you talking about me?” Baz asked, affronted. Of course, neither Dev nor Niall could hear him, so he received no direct reply, but he didn’t need one with the words that followed.</p><p>“Oh look at me, I have to live with the Chosen One, my grades are great, every girl in school wants to date me, my life is so hard,” Dev mocked.</p><p>“You don’t know anything about my problems,” Baz retorted, though it once more fell onto deaf ears. Pointless as the words were, he felt better for saying them.</p><p>“Perhaps your friends would be more sympathetic if you actually told them your problems,” the spirit gently suggested. Baz immediately recoiled at the suggestion. How would his friends react knowing that he was a blood-draining creature of the night, that he was tasked by his families to spy on the Mage and kill his roommate, that he was gay…</p><p>“I don’t think he cares much for the girl part,” Niall continued on the conversation in the room. “I get the feeling that, as much as he complains to us, there’s plenty he’s not saying.”</p><p>Damn Niall and his perceptiveness. It made Baz uncomfortable to be so seen, flayed open and vulnerable to the scrutiny of Niall’s watery blue eyes.</p><p>“I doubt it, but even if that’s true, why does he not just tell us!” Dev ranted on. “Hey guys, I’m gay. How hard is that?”</p><p>Niall winced. The words had seemed to cut him, more than they would if he was just sympathising for his friend. Baz really hadn’t been paying much attention to his friends, but now he was watching as a spectator, it seemed obvious he had missed something big. Niall, the only friend he had outside of his family, may indeed be more open to some of his secrets than Baz previously thought.</p><p>“You know what,” Dev blundered on, oblivious to his roommates sudden introspection. “The next time he comes in here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I am done. You hear me? D-O-N-E, done. He’s a shit friend and I don’t need him.”<br/>Baz was taken aback. He hadn’t realised things had gotten so dire between him and his cousin. He looked to Niall to deny this assertion, to calm Dev down, to say that he would continue their friendship even if Dev did not. But nothing came. Niall just sat, miserably looking at his hands, ponderous and silent.</p><p>“I think we’ve seen enough here,” the spirit said, gently guiding Baz back out of the room by his elbow. “Come now, there’s much still to see.”<br/>They exited through the solid wood door, emerging into a weakly sunlight corridor, though it was no corridor Baz had ever seen before. The walls were painted a militant grey, pockmarked and chipped and painted over again. The floor was a lighter shade, or at least it should have been if it weren’t scraped and dirtied, scuffmarks and mud tracked in random lines, layer upon layer until it was impossible to follow just one trail. But what overwhelmed Baz most of all was the smell, like a boys locker room amplified by ten, by one hundred, feet and sweat and body spray, all trying valiantly to cover the lingering scent of mildew and industrial bleach.</p><p>“Where are we now, Spirit?” Baz asked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. In the distance he could hear chattering, likely coming from behind the blue door at the end of the hallway.</p><p>“Why don’t you see for yourself,” the spirit smiled, gesturing towards another door along the length of the hall, this one standing slightly ajar.</p><p>“What’s in there?”</p><p>The spirit didn’t answer, simply raising an eyebrow as he continued to smile benevolently. Baz had no choice but to go as directed, sliding himself into the room through the tiny gap. The inside of the room was as bleak as the hallway outside, though the walls were painted an off white instead of grey. Along one wall was a row of cot-like beds, narrow and unkempt with scratchy-looking blankets and lumpy pillows, small crates abutting the footboards of each overflowing with personal affects.</p><p>Only one of the beds was occupied, the boy sitting there had his head bowed over a threadbare rucksack. The back of his neck was scattered with moles, and these continued up into his hairline which were visible due to the curls that usually rioted there being shorn down, violently hacked back like a rose bush in winter. Baz knew him, of course he knew him, he would recognise the pattern of those freckles anywhere, having had them scattered like stars in the sky across every dream since he turned 15. Simon Snow.</p><p>He was packing, probably getting ready for school, though he only had one bag. He turned to his wooden crate and stuffed in a tracksuit and some crumpled up boxers. At the bottom of the crate was a battered paperback and a strange piece of twisted metal, likely some sort of keepsake from one adventure or another. These too went into the bag, which barely bulged from the extra weight. Baz expected Snow to go to the lockers that lined the opposite wall to gather the rest of his possessions, but instead he fastened the straps of the bag and slung it onto his back.</p><p>“Is that really all he has?” Baz whispered, more to himself than for want of actual answers.</p><p>Snow had stood, walking towards the door with a determined jut to his chin. He looked as he had when he was facing down the chimera, that ill-fated day in the Wavering Wood. What need had he to be brave, here in this dreary place? The thought had barely crossed his mind when a group of boys came bursting into the room.</p><p>“Aww look at this lads,” the biggest boy drawled. He was tall and heavyset, his ears like florets of cauliflower where they had been boxed one too many times. “Snow-one is going off to his special school.”</p><p>The other boys laughed and crowded closer. Snow closed himself off, making himself smaller than he was. He looked like he was concentrating hard on something, trying to control the nuclear bomb under his skin Baz would imagine. A younger boy braved a step forward to push against Snow’s shoulder. He put up no resistance, stumbling back a step. Did these children not know that they were toying with the most powerful mage the world had ever seen? That this was a boy who slayed a dragon at 11? But why would they? They were Normal, and stupid too.</p><p>“Leave me alone,” Snow mumbled. He tried to push past but they closed their ranks.</p><p>“Leave you alone?!” scoffed one. “Leave you like everyone does.”<br/>“Snow-one loves you, Snow-one cares,” jeered another. Some of the others took it up as a chant, cruel in only the way children can be. It explained the nickname that they had bestowed upon him.</p><p>Baz couldn’t understand it. What was this place? He had assumed that Snow had spent his summers going on adventures with the Mage, or having sleepovers with Bunce or Wellbelove. But not here in this squalor, meagre scraps on the table making xylophone ridges on his ribcage. It was no wonder he ate like a starving child and treasured his uniform as a leprechaun with his gold.</p><p>Snow was backing further into the room again, retreating from the mob. He could so easily blast his way out of here, tearing these Normals apart like papier-mâché, but perhaps that’s what the frightened expression on his face was for. Baz couldn’t imagine he was afraid of these insignificant youths, but it would be just like the little hero to be afraid of the power he has to hurt his adversaries.</p><p>Fortunately for Snow, just as he had blocked himself into a corner with no hope of escape, another individual entered the room. She was a stocky lady, no more than 5’2” and wearing a long drab dress, but held herself with the authority of one twice her size. Despite her diminutive stature, the boys scattered, scratching their heads and attempting innocent facades.</p><p>“Come now, Simon,” the woman said brusquely. “The car is here to take you to the station.”</p><p>Snow took a tremulous breath and stepped up behind the lady, towering over her but dwarfed all the same by her width. Baz followed them out to the car and watched as Snow settled down into the backseat.</p><p>“Goodbye Simon.” The woman had softened her scowl, clearly having an affection for the sad lonely boy who had come to her for the year. He had a record for skipping from one home to the next, so she doubted she would see him again.</p><p>“Goodbye Sister Elise,” he replied with a small smile.</p><p>Just as the door closed, Baz saw Snow close his eyes and the smile widened ever so slightly. Though the window was tinted, he could make out Snow’s mouth forming the shape of words. <em>Sour cherry scones. </em></p><p>The car peeled out of the drive, leaving Baz to watch after it. He wanted to follow, as if he were tied to Snow by a string. He reached out helplessly, but the sunlight faded abruptly back to night, and Baz found himself once more alone, grasping at the air for a boy who was no longer there.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. When the clock strikes three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>To the future...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is a little shorter. I have also edited the tags, so please look at those!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>BONG! BONG! BONG!</p><p>Baz was standing, hand extended as his heart stuttered out a foreign rhythm, once more in his bedroom. It might have been the coldness of the late hour, the contrast from the sunny day he had just seen or something more sinister, but Baz found himself shivering in his thin night wear.</p><p>The door banged open with a sudden gust of wind, Baz jumping nearly out of his skin. He peered into the darkness beyond the door frame, a black unnatural fog swirling thickly in the air. There was no where else to go, and Baz was so weary of this night that he didn’t even question the direction of the new path ahead. The mist parted before him and closed again behind him as he walked forward, until he was no longer sure which way he faced.</p><p>After what could be hours or mere seconds, Baz emerged into the drizzling rain. Before him, standing on the wet wintery lawn at Watford, for it was surely winter in this vision, stood a menacing figure, towering in a black cloak, face hidden. The spirit appeared as if Death himself had deigned to visit, but Baz was sure he didn’t qualify for such attentions. He had a fairly good idea who this spirit was.</p><p>“You are the ghost of the future?” Baz questioned, voice stronger than he felt at that moment. For while he was sure in his mind this was not Death come for him at long last, the trembling in his heart was not so easy to quell.</p><p>The spirit nodded, slowly, gravely.</p><p>“And what have you to show me?”</p><p>The spirit was unmoved by the question, not reacting in any visible way. Baz frowned, for he thought this spirit was to be his guide, like the last. Even if it did not speak, surely it could direct his gaze or point him in a direction.</p><p>“Tell me Spirit!” Baz demanded. The silence intensified somehow, the shadow behind the hood of the cloak growing darker. It frightened Baz, and he suddenly felt remorse for his tone. “Please show me what I am here to see.”</p><p>The spirit once more said nothing, but turned towards the White Chapel off to the North East of where they stood. Baz turned too, squinting his eyes against the light rain. It was odd that, despite the rain, the air felt dry and staticky. Baz could feel it deep within himself, down to the elusive source of his magic.</p><p>His momentary distraction cause by the odd quality of the air was quickly dissuaded from his mind when he took in the blackened ruin of the White Chapel. The roof was partially missing, as was part of the upper story walls. It was as if a massive fire had broken out… Or a bomb had gone off.</p><p>Suddenly the dry feeling to the air took on another meaning, for this was the feeling of a magical explosion. And Baz only knew one person with enough magic to explode in such a way. Without much thought, Baz set off through the milling students out on the lawn in search of his roommate. Maybe he would have the answers, could explain the circumstances of this miserable future.</p><p>He passed by a gaggle of tittering third years as he approached Mummers House. They were furtively whispering and looking over their shoulders towards the Cloisters, or rather more specifically at the figure slumped against the wall despite the inclement weather.</p><p>“-she would’ve died along with them if she’d been there, no way,” one of them said in a hushed undertone.</p><p>“Well she definitely saw more than the rest of us!” Another argued.</p><p>The first turned to her friend with narrowed eyes. “I’m sure she did but I’m not going to ask. She probably blames herself for what happened, and I don’t want to make it worse…”</p><p>They walked out of hearing range, conversation lost to the increasingly heavy raindrops pounding on the wet ground. Baz was torn between following them and going to investigate the figure against the wall when the latter caught his attention with a flash of movement. She had raised her head, the hood of her coat dropping back to reveal bright purple curls. Penelope Bunce.</p><p>Ideas began to resolve themselves in Baz’s mind. If Bunce was sitting out in the rain alone, then whatever occurred in the White Chapel must have involved the Chosen One. The overheard conversation suddenly sunk in: <em>would’ve died along with them. </em>Was Simon Snow dead?</p><p>Baz felt a pit of dread open up in his stomach. Simon Snow couldn’t be dead, he was supposed to live to fulfil his destiny as the greatest mage the world has ever known. Although Baz was always one to rag on his roommate, to tease and taunt and pull him down, there was never any doubt in his head that Snow would rise up to prove his words false. He was the epitome of all that was good in the world. He was everything that Baz was not. He was <em>alive </em>in every sense, and just being near him made Baz feel that he could be too.</p><p>Except now he was not.</p><p>Was this the showdown his family, that all the Old Families, had waited for?</p><p>Baz approached Bunce with unnecessary caution, for he was merely a visitor in this future and she would not see his approach. Not that she would have even if he were truly there, as her eyes were swimming with tears, salty tracks all over her face showing that these weren’t the first to spill onto her cheeks, nor would they be the last this day.</p><p>The grief in the air around her was palpable. Baz quickly glanced around and, sure enough, everyone here was in some state of mourning, their steps slow, their heads hung low, and every conversation hushed and muted.</p><p>Another thought occurred to Baz then. The girl had said <em>them, </em>not him.</p><p>Baz searched and scanned the faces once more, but even those he recognised belonging to the Old Families were also grief-lined and stricken. Was Baz arrogant enough to assume they also mourned for him? He might once have believed they would, but now wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t left behind the best impression of himself, never letting anyone come close enough to care. He ran back to the spirit, who still stood staring impassively at the ruin.</p><p>“Spirit,” he begged. “Please put me out of my misery. Is this a future in which I die? Do these people mourn me?”</p><p>Baz wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answers. What would he do if the answer to the first was yes but the second no? He had always held onto the vain hope that somebody, somewhere, would miss him when he was gone. That he had stayed, if not alive then simply existing, for some purpose or meaning. But he was now faced with the prospect that it all meant nothing, and he felt colder than he ever had. Not the cold of ice, nor that of even a grave, but the impassionate coldness of the unfeeling universe.</p><p>The spirit, of course, did not voice any answers. A bony finger rose from within the folds of its cloak, pointing not towards any mourners (or worse celebrators), but to the catacombs, where Baz had spent many a lonely night quenching his dark thirsts.</p><p>Baz took a stumbling step towards the entrance. He had known this place for most of his life, for it was where his mother was buried. He used to visit her often, just to talk over his daily frustrations and successes. But in the last year he had neglected this duty, preferring to sulk in other dark corners to hide the shame of the monster he had become. But it was to her grave he now went, tracing the familiar steps with a sense of dread.</p><p>He did not need a light to guide his way, even with his extraordinary sense of sight. But what he found when he reached her resting place was somehow worse than he thought.</p><p>He saw himself.</p><p>He was a wretched thing to behold, tear-stained and starved, hunched over himself as he gripped, white-knuckled, at his clothes. He choked on his own spittle, trying to form the words of a prayer.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he cried. “Mother I couldn’t save him. I didn’t- I couldn’t get to him-“</p><p>Baz looked upon this version of himself in pity, though he too could feel the gnawing of grief beginning to fester in his heart. A world without Simon Snow was no world at all.</p><p>“If only I had been with him,” the future Baz continued, sobbing between each word.</p><p>He sucked in the air, shaky and wet, over and over, trying to calm himself. It took a long painful minute, and Baz watched as he pulled himself together, bit-by-bit. Eventually he stood tall, though he still trembled like a leaf in the wind.</p><p>“I’m sorry Mother,” he whispered. “But a world without Simon…”<br/>He echoed the thoughts that Baz had just entertained. How close was he already to the wreck he saw in front of him?</p><p>“I just wish I had the chance to hold him… Just once.” A sad smile graced his tortured face. “But it will never be.”</p><p>Baz looked on, astonished, as a light flared up in the dark room. The Baz in this future vision had lit a flame in the palm of his hand. He stared into it, and it reflected the gleaming, unshed tears that clung to his eyes.</p><p>Then, he closed his palm and the world dissolved once more into light.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A new day dawns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two chapters in one day... :p<br/>Honestly I just wanted to finish up before the new year.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Baz awoke screaming.</p><p>He bolted upright, sheets tangling around his legs as he scrambled out of his bed towards the window. It was shut, but well oiled thanks to his roommate’s predilection for running hot, so he flung it open to lean outside.</p><p>Underneath the window ledge, a few early risers were slowly making their way to the breakfast hall in the weak sunshine. The air was warm and the sweet scent of decaying flowers clung to the sides of Baz’s nose as deeply inhaled. It was far from the drizzly winter vision that had felt so real.</p><p>Below, Penelope Bunce was crossing the lawn, eyes intent on the book in her hand.</p><p>“Bunce!” Baz called to her, and she looked around startled unable to find where the voice had come from. He called again. “Bunce!”</p><p>This time she looked up to see him precariously balancing on the window ledge. Shock transformed her features, which quickly morphed into confusion.</p><p>“What do you want, Pitch?” She yelled up at him.</p><p>“Where is Snow?”</p><p>She looked as though she was debating whether or not she should answer. Simon had always told her his roommate was plotting his demise, but surely there was nothing he could do with this, especially as Simon wasn’t even here yet. She glanced at her watch.</p><p>“He’s probably on his way here… Why do you want to know?” she asked, looking up at him shrewdly.</p><p>“So he’s alive?!” Baz exulted and, without waiting for a reply, he leapt back from the window with a grin. Penelope frowned and rolled her eyes before continuing about her day.</p><p>Baz spun around taking in the room. It was as he had left it the night before, clothes and linen shredded all over Simon’s side of the room. Baz frowned. Simon had so little, that simply wouldn’t do. He raised his wand and waved it over the mess he had made.</p><p>“<strong>As you were.</strong>”</p><p>The threads and weaves rose and spun, knitting themselves back together in a whirlwind of green and purple. They neatly laid themselves down, ready for the boy to return. Baz watched them with satisfaction, but it was short lived and hollow. There was much still to do.</p><p>First stop he made, after dressing of course, was to Dev and Niall’s room. There was some noise behind the door as they got ready for the day, steam emerging into the corridor and curling around his feet. He took a breath and knocked.</p><p>After a long moment, the door cracked open revealing one of Niall’s watery eyes, staring out suspiciously. Upon seeing Baz, he reluctantly opened the door further, but not enough to be construed as an invitation in.</p><p>“What do you want?” he asked, though he sounded more resigned than angry. Baz felt a twist in his gut. Perhaps he was already too late to fix this.</p><p>“I…” Baz hesitated. He looked down at his hands, which he was nervously wringing. He heaved a sigh. “I came here to apologise. Can I come in?”<br/>Niall was taken aback. He had never heard Baz apologise for anything. He stepped away from the door, opening it wider in silent welcome. Baz came inside, noting the distribution of the boxes were the same as he remembered from his nightly visions. He twitched at the thought. The main difference between the two tableaus was the position of the room’s inhabitants. Dev was sitting on the end of his bed, scowling up at Baz.</p><p>“Well?” Dev demanded. Baz faltered. He hadn’t thought through this far, hoping that the inspiration would strike him suddenly, like lightning. But as far as inspiration was concerned, Baz’s mind was a blue sky. Instead of delivering a heartfelt speech, as he would have wanted, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:</p><p>“I’m gay.”<br/>Dev’s eyebrows raised in shock. Clearly that’s not what he was expecting to hear. Niall, however, seemed less surprised.</p><p>“I’m gay,” Baz repeated, calmer now. “And I hadn’t told you. The secret was weighing on me, and causing me problems with my father, and it made me lash out at you. It’s a terrible excuse, and I am sorry for any hurt I’ve caused you because of it.”<br/>“I forgive you, mate,” Niall said, the fastest to recover. Dev was still blinking up at them in surprise. “I get why you’d keep it to yourself… It’s hard to…”</p><p>Baz put a reassuring hand on Niall’s shoulder, feeling the warmth suffuse through the thin layer of Niall’s t-shirt into his fingers. When was the last time he had casually touched his friend like this? It seemed to calm them both. Niall took a deep breath.</p><p>“What I’m trying to say,” Niall started again. “Is that I get it. Because I’m bi…”<br/>If Baz’s confession had shocked Dev, it was nothing on this. Niall was his best friend, how had he missed this?</p><p>“You-? I- what?” Dev spluttered. “I didn’t know. How did I not know?!”<br/>Baz and Niall turned to him as he stood from his bed. The initial relief now took on a nervous edge. Dev meant a lot to both boys, and if he took this badly it would spell disaster for them, especially his roommate Niall.</p><p>“Don’t look at me like that,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, you like boys, whatever. I’m just surprised I didn’t see it coming.”</p><p>Baz broke out into a grin and, moving as one, he and Niall descended on Dev in a crushing group hug. Baz couldn’t remember a warmer feeling. Of course, he still had secrets left to share, but he was on the right track.</p><p>They went down to breakfast, ribbing and nudging each other in the most well-meaning way. Baz internally celebrated every casual touch, and wondered at the sensation. It had been so long since he had felt close enough, comfortable enough, for such attentions. How much of the hardening of his heart was really touch-starvation?</p><p>They spend the rest of the morning together, playing football and catching each other up on their summers. It was well into the afternoon when a commotion disrupted the relative peace, shouts rippling out as Simon Snow staggered through the school gates, sword in hand, covered in blood.</p><p>Baz didn’t think before he started running, slightly too fast to be considered human.</p><p>“Simon are you ok?” he asked breathlessly.</p><p>Simon looked up at Baz guilelessly. He didn’t know what to make of the concern, mouth hanging open.</p><p>“Yeah I’m ok,” he mumbled, stowing his sword in a brave, or foolish, display of trust. On looking down, he was once again reminded of the viscera that covered him. He quirked a smile, looking back up at Baz. “This isn’t my blood.”</p><p>Baz already knew this, for as soon as he approached Simon, he could smell the blood was not human. But the small half-smile directed at him made his heart skip, and he couldn’t help but return it. He lurched forward.</p><p>Simon didn’t have time to react before he was engulfed in Baz’s arms. He stiffened under the touch, but on realising that this wasn’t an attack, he relaxed into it. He even returned the embrace, arms circling around Baz’s back.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re ok,” Baz whispered. The hug went on longer than either of the boys anticipated, but it felt good, it felt right, to greet each other in such a way. The heat from Simon’s body was all it took to melt the last vestiges of ice from his heart.</p><p>Simon pulled back confused. Baz, for his part, was also confused. He had always loved Simon, and the relief on seeing him alive and knowing that he was well and whole, despite his grisly appearance, had broken him to the point of given in to this basest of desires: to be touched. But he hadn’t expected that it would be reciprocated, that his touch would even be welcome.</p><p>“You called me Simon,” Simon breathed, eyebrows still quirked quizzically. Baz’s smile widened.</p><p>“You hugged me back,” he retorted softly.</p><p>“Well yeah,” Simon shrugged. “I put you on my list.”</p><p>Baz didn’t know what that meant, but in that moment he decided he didn’t care. Instead he leaned back in for another hug, tingling with effervescent happiness. This was going to be the start of a great year.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later that night, as Simon and Baz sat cross-legged across from each other trading tentative secrets in the dark, a figure shimmered in the corner of the room.</p><p>“Simon, my rose-bud boy,” she called out in a velvet whisper. “How good it is to see you. But I don’t have much time… My death is not what it seems…” She was fading in and out, the words a strain to hear. “…Natasha Pitch was… Find Nicodemus…”</p><p>And with that she faded.</p><p>Simon and Baz stared at each other in the following silence. It seemed they had an adventure ahead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you enjoyed this :) <br/>In my head this leads almost directly into the events of the book.<br/>Also as I was playing a video game, my little brother got hold of my laptop and wrote this on my open word document:<br/>“Churchill said it best when he said “there is nothing to fear but fear itself.” But I believe racoons are to fear. They’re bastards!”  Said a voice in a soft German accent as the green thread unwound and made itself into a racoon.<br/>Its little people hands and bandit mask stank of evil as the purple thread twitched a voice that sounded like Moss from the it crowd boomed through the room “I am the dark lord of all moss with my racoon and my milk I can take over the world and make the world kneel before me”.</p><p>So there's that...</p>
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